Dear Sammy
by VirgoStarr
Summary: The aftermath
1. Chapter 1

If you were to ever venture to the corner of the Post Road and Main Street in Dakota, Illinois, you would see a man sitting on a wooden bench.

In his hand would be a bottle of some sort of liquor, the label hidden my a brown paper bag.

Some people assume he's homeless, choosing to spend what little money he has left on alcohol that numbs his brain.

If anyone cared enough to stay until two in the morning, though, they would notice him climb into a black car and drive away to who knows where.

The man's behavior was ritualistic, almost a religious practice, seeing as how he showed up precisely at 5:00 every Sunday.

Once a month, though, this pattern was broken. Another man would approach the man on the bench. This new guy was tall and had long, but not unkempt, brown hair.

Their conversation would start off quiet, the tall man trying to comfort the other, sitting next to him and patting him on the back. Exactly an hour later, the soft words would turn into a shouting match, waking everyone in the neighbor hood.

Then the tall man would walk away angrily, leaving the other staring longingly after him. And when it got quiet again, you could almost hear him crying.

For as long as this had been going on, no one knew who they were. No one seemed to care.

Not even when the man was lying motionless on the bench the night of December 24th.

He was first noticed by an old couple out for an early morning Christmas walk. The sight of a man sleeping on a bench when there had been three inches of snow the previous night struck them as odd, and nervously went over to investigate.

The man on the bench was surrounded by three empty bottles of vodka and a small pocket knife. His eyes were open, but clouded over and a small stream of vomit trickled from his mouth.

Blood fell from his exposed wrist, staining the once pure snow crimson.

A note lay beside him, which the couple decided to open, hoping to find some sign of a family member's address or phone number.

It read

_Dear Sammy..._


	2. Chapter 2

The farther the old couple read into the letter, the more confused they became. Nothing that was mentioned made logical sense. Things like demons and vampires didn't exist.

Trying their hardest to ignore the bizarre content of the note, they searched over me over again for an address or a phone number.

The only thing they knew about this man was that he had a connection with someone named Sammy.  
The old woman read the letter over and over, becoming continually more perplexed. She was absorbed by its contents and was slightly surprised when her husband laid a hand on her shoulder.  
"Ruth, we should probably just call the police." The old man pulled out his phone and was about to dial 911 when a man came jogging over and stopped in front of the bench.  
"No, it's okay, I'll take care of him," he mumbled. The old couple wanted to argue and insist that they call 911, but he simply picked up the other man bridal style and carried him off to the black car that had been waiting there since 5 o'clock last night.  
Ruth got a sudden wind of curiosity and called out down the street "What's your name." The young man hesitated before calling back "Sam" and then climbing in the car.

The Impala seemed oddly empty even with Dean lying right next to him in the passenger seat.  
Sam had tied a rag around Dean's bloody arm and wiped the vomit from his mouth. When Dean started driving the Impala again, he wouldn't appreciate all those stains, even if they we're is own doing.  
Dakota was a small town and the nearest hospital was ten miles away. The silence that filled the car was almost deafening and Sam couldn't stand it.  
"Listen Dean, I know you're alive. Why don't you just wake up, you're really scaring me. Please, it's your little brother Sammy." Tears started sliding down Sam's face. He angrily swiped them away and let out a grim laugh.  
"Look at me, turning this into a chick flick moment. You would've been so angry if you were alive... Awake. So come on, just please wake up."  
"Dean, I promise I'll never eat the last of the Lucky Charms ever again and I'll always listen to what you say and I won't get in the way anymore, just please Dean, please."  
But the man in the seat beside him did not stir. He just lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. Blood had begun seeping through the white rag, but he was not alive.  
Even though he had the faintest of pulses, he was not alive anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Sammy Chp 3

The hospital they arrived at was one of the saddest places they had ever seen. The hallways were barren; all the staff was in the lounge, obviously having some sort of Christmas party. There was a lone nurse sitting at an information desk, chewing gum and reading a magazine.  
Red and green streamers that were torn in several places fluttered lazily on the wall, hanging by a small piece of tape.  
Sam ran in frantically, carrying Dean and searching for a stretcher.  
"Please help me! My brother! He-" The words caught in his throat and he felt more tears coming to his eyes.  
The nurse quickly got up and began pounding on the door to the lounge. "Set him on that bed over there!" Sam reluctantly put Dean down and knelt beside him.  
"You're going to be okay." A doctor rushed out, still wearing a festive party hat, and wheeled Dean to an operating room.  
"You've got to let me in!" Sam sobbed. But as much as he pleaded, the nurses barred him from seeing his brother.  
Eventually, he became tired and retreated to the waiting room to sit in one of the hard plastic chairs.  
How had he let this happen? Where had everything gone wrong?

Cas had left approximately two years ago. They had been hunting, just the three of them, for a coven of witches hidden somewhere in the Colorado Mountains.  
Dean had slipped on a patch of ice and almost fell off a treacherous cliff (Sam had of course pulled him up before he did though).  
They had found the witches and got rid of them and decided to go to a diner afterwards.  
Cas had barely touched his food and when Dean asked about the angel's strange behavior, he got up and left.  
He muttered a quick "Goodbye Dean, Sam," and exited the diner. It was peculiar occurrence, but neither of the Winchester brothers paid too much attention to it.  
But when Cas didn't come back the next day or the next week or the next month, they really started to worry. Dean prayed everyday, but they never heard from Cas again.  
After that point, everything went downhill. Dean still went on hunts with Sam, but his drinking increased by a lot.  
Instead of going to the occasional bar, he would go to one every night and come home with a bottle of whiskey which would last him, at most, two days.  
Sam spent many nights lying waking in bed, listening to his brother retching into the toilet.  
Along with the constant binge drinking, Dean had also just stopped eating.  
He would take a bite or two when Sam forced him, but he would never go on his own accord to get something to eat.  
And with Dean constantly throwing up, it was even unhealthier than usual.  
One day, Sam found Dean in the bathroom of one of the hotels they had been staying, just standing their, staring into the mirror. His teeth were clenched and his hands were grabbing the edge of the sink.  
Even though Dean seemed to be staring intently into the mirror, his eyes looked dead and his face was gaunt. Almost a corpse.  
After awhile Dean noticed Sam watching.  
"Don't like what I've become, huh Sammy?" He laughed unpleasantly and turned his eyes away from the mirror for a second to look at Sam, but then quickly turned back.  
"This constant drinking and throwing up, oh you must hate that part the most, you were always so squeamish. But hey, you're also scared of clowns, and that's really weird Sam." Dean laughed again and stayed quiet for a few minutes after before becoming serious again.  
"And listen I hope you haven't come in here to check on me or force me to eat, because I know that's all bullshit. You don't care, no one cares anymore."  
The takeout container is Sam's hands, the contents of which he had been planning to make Dean eat, suddenly seemed heavy and a nauseous feeling washed over Sam.  
"Dean, you know I care, just please-"  
"Sam! Just stop lying to me! Stop, stop, STOP!" Dean was now resting his arms on the counter of the sink, his head in his hands, his hair being practically torn out.  
"Just stop Sam," he whispered, and with that, Dean pushed past Sam and lay down on his bed to take a nap.  
And that was the last they ever talked about the subject.  
Sam found a way to ignore the puking that happened every night, even though it broke him up inside and often involved crying himself to sleep. He would still always remember to get Dean a burger when he went to the diner. And, sometimes, Dean would manage to eat half of it, but that was wasted when Dean threw up once more at night.  
It was cruel and it was painful, but it was a pattern, a cycle, something that provided stability in the boys' completely unstable lives.


	4. Chapter 4

Every passing minute felt like an hour and when the doctor finally came out, Sam almost jumped at him.  
"How is he? Is he alive?" he asked frantically, his eyes wild. Sam clutched at the doctor's coat, silently begging for an answer.  
"Yes, he's alive," the doctor said, prying Sam off his coat "But, unfortunately, he is in a coma for the time being. His stomach and throat are damaged from all the alcohol and vomit. We're still pumping his stomach and-"  
"But can I see him?"  
"Yes, but you must know-"  
Sam rushed off to the hospital room before the doctor got a chance to finish his last sentence and was shocked by what he saw on the other side of the door.  
Dean, his older brother, the strong one, the one who always seemed to be fine, now lay before his little brother in a fragile state.  
His skin was pale, almost white, which only made the dark circles under his eyes more apparent.  
A tube was connected to his stomach, pumping out all the toxins that resided in it.  
And the most frightening of all was the large amount of gauze used to cover Dean's forearm. There was most definitely stitches underneath, and even then, there were still small spots of blood staining the white bandages.  
His face was contorted into one of discomfort, as though his coma induced dreams were that of nightmarish beasts, but Sam only saw defeat.  
It was the only thing, as far as Sam was concerned, that Dean had not experienced. No matter how many times he was beat down, Dean was always ready to pop back up and keep going.  
Now, in his brother's darkest hour, Sam knew Dean was finally finished. He was not going to pop back up this time and he sure as hell was not going to keep going. And that killed Sam inside.

*************

It had been about six months after the excessive drinking had began and Sam had tried to get Dean to stop.  
He had hidden the alcohol and barred Dean from going to bars and even went as far as two handcuff him to a bed post, but Dean always managed to get more alcohol.  
Finally, Sam put his foot down and told Dean that he would have no more of this destructive behavior. In that moment, a little bit of the old Dean came back. He looked up at his younger brother with a smile and nodded decidedly before dumping his tequila down the drain of a hotel sink.  
But Sam should've known it was all just a front. He would occasionally go to the laundromat to do their laundry and would often find switchblades and pocket knives in his brother's pocket. He would just push any concerns he had aside though; they were hunters after all and knives weren't uncommon to them.  
Eventually Dean got lazy and Sam would discover the knives with a thin trail of blood along the blade.  
At this point, Sam became a little frantic, considering Dean wouldn't have any use of the knife on their current hunting trip. And he knew, in the very back of his mind, he knew what Dean was doing, but he refused to admit it to himself.  
But when they were in Arizona and Dean was wearing long sleeves in ninety degree weather, it became extremely apparent to him.  
The next time that Sam and Dean were alone in the hotel room together, they sat down to talk about exactly what this all meant.  
Sam pulled one of the knives out of his pocket and opened it to reveal the blade who's edge was coated with brown, oxidized blood.  
Dean bit his lip, obviously becoming nervous, but still tried to play it cool.  
"Dean, can you please explain this to me?" Sam asked calmly, trying not to lose it and have a complete mental breakdown.  
"Sam, it's a knife with blood on it. I've seen scarier things in a high school locker room," Dean chuckled, not taking things as seriously as they should be.  
"Yes Dean, but how did it get there?" Sam brought the knife closer to Dean, who began to sweat a little under the pressure.  
"We're hunters dude, vampires and demons and all that crap, we're constantly around blood."  
"Yes Dean, but I did not see you use it once against anything on any of our trips. Listen, I don't want to intrude on your private life, we all have our secrets, but if you're doing this to yourself, you really need to tell me. You're my brother and I love-"  
Dean groaned, cutting Sam off. "Oh please, quit it with the chick flick moment." He laughed good-naturedly and began getting up, but Sam made him sit back down.  
"Dean, this is serious. I don't want you to end up dead, this is really bad and I-"  
"Quit it with the goddamn chick flick moments. I told you once and I'll tell you again, I'm fine!" He stormed off and this time, Sam didn't stop him.


End file.
